


A Conventional Arrangement

by SeedsOfWinter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Allosexual Aziraphale, Alternate Universe - Fans & Fandom, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Aziraphale Has Anxiety and It’s Better Controlled, Cheating on Shitty Boyfriends, Consenting Adults Who Kink, Convention Crushes, Convention Tech Crowley, Conventions, Cosplay, Cosplayer Crowley, Crowley Has Anxiety and It’s Rough, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Dancing, Drinking, Emotional Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Fandom conventions, Flirting, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Karaoke, Kissing, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, Other, Panic Attacks, Partying, Pining, Professor Aziraphale (sort of), Romance, Smoking, Steampunk Aziraphale, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, The Devil Went Down To Georgia, Trans Crowley (Good Omens), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, allosexual Crowley, oh my god they were room mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeedsOfWinter/pseuds/SeedsOfWinter
Summary: When Crowley sees a lit track presenter give away his hotel room, the low-level tech op volunteer comes to Professor A.Z. Fell’s rescue. Setting into motion six years of flirtation and pining at DivineCon, are they just a con crush or is there a future where they could be more?-----Anthony J. Crowley hadn’t been around when DivineCon first appeared on the American fandom scene, bursting to life in the early years of the new millennium as the place for science fiction aficionados, all-night gamers, and cosplayers both professional and novice alike. No, he had been in a little Essex city with good nightlife and river air in his lungs, a few years past dropping out of his London university and struggling to make ends meet, not yet aware of the lure of a long weekend outside the bounds of reality. The siren song would come for Crowley later, dressing him up in flamboyant costumes, introducing him to fantasy television stars and favorite authors for a small fee, and plying him with alcohol and dance, telling him to forget. Forget. For one shining moment, baby, forget that life is a shithole.He’d burned too bright and too fast, falling out of favor over senseless shit he should have seen coming.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Satan | Lucifer (Good Omens)
Comments: 94
Kudos: 72
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [N0nb1narydemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/N0nb1narydemon/gifts).



> The human AU birthed one midnight hour because N0nb1naryDemon said “What if” and SeedsOfWinter said “Yes.” Can’t go to Dragon Con? We’ll just make our own.
> 
> Character list will update as new characters are introduced. And needed Tags will also update, but are currently what I expect.

28 August, 2014

Atlanta, Georgia, United States

Anthony J. Crowley hadn’t been around when DivineCon first appeared on the American fandom scene, bursting to life in the early years of the new millennium as _the_ place for science fiction aficionados, all-night gamers, and cosplayers both professional and novice alike. No, he had been in a little Essex city with good nightlife and river air in his lungs, a few years past dropping out of his London university and struggling to make ends meet, not yet aware of the lure of a long weekend outside the bounds of reality. The siren song would come for Crowley later, dressing him up in flamboyant costumes, introducing him to fantasy television stars and favorite authors for a small fee, and plying him with alcohol and dance, telling him to forget. Forget. For one shining moment, baby, forget that life is a shithole.

He’d burned too bright and too fast, falling out of favor over senseless shit he should have seen coming.

All those years later, he wouldn’t have given DivCon a second thought if it hadn’t been for Luc, all flattery and charm and rich golden hair riding into his life at the most inopportune time, practically carrying him off to his underground lair. Georgia. Four thousand miles away from anything familiar. What a horribly humid place. Crowley loathed it. He had to keep his hair shorn close just to get any work done and not retreat to plant himself in front of Luc’s aircon back at their flat. “Apartment,” rang his boyfriend’s voice in his head.

But what the place lacked in breathable summers, it made up for in other ways. Crowley especially liked how it put him lightyears from anyone who might remember what an arse he’d made of himself a decade earlier. Scandal couldn’t follow him across the pond if no one could find him. And it was easy to slip out into the city streets, just another unknown weirdo out for a cup of overpriced coffee. Pay no attention to the man behind the dark shades.

In the dizzying atrium lobby of the Marriott Marquis, idly riding the escalators with the early arrivals, Crowley was on edge. He hadn’t heard from Luc in hours. He’d managed just fine on his own to check into their room in the Sheraton the next road over--”It’s called a block,” Luc would have chided with a nasty chuckle before leaning in for a kiss--but for the life of him, Crowley couldn’t figure out where to gather his volunteer badge. It was Thursday. The convention didn’t start until morning. Were they even giving them out yet? The idea of waking up at dawn to stand in a crowded endless snake of a line, possibly outside in the Georgia heat, made him shudder.

Why had he agreed to this? DivineCon wasn’t London MCM in the mid-noughties, where he could hang around with a couple thousand fellow fans. This was serious crowds. Luc’s stepmum had said they expected to rival their record breaking previous year. That meant more than fifty thousand people across five hotels, and two city streets blocked off for four days. It was utterly, unthinkably enormous.

He was working himself up over nothing. Maybe not nothing, but he definitely was working himself up over something that hadn’t happened yet. Yes. DivineCon was big. Possibly too big. But there weren’t going to be tens of thousands of people in one room at a time. And if it was too much, he could always retreat as needed. A large chunk of the time, he’d be in a presentation room. He had asked to manage a smaller one, none of the big halls, for just this reason.

He’d prepared the best he could.

In the tight confines of his faded black jeans, his phone buzzed.

 _Luc._ Crowley’s heart soared. He’d fix this.

Crowley swiped and read the message. “Mother Dear is on the warpath. I’m out.”

Out? Out? What did he mean out? Crowley sent back a flurry of question marks.

He stalked over to the nearest wall, ignored the couple he almost bumped into, and slumped against a column while he waited, breath stuttering. He couldn’t be alone in this. Luc knew what a big deal it was for him to attend a convention again after all he’d gone through. He wouldn’t forget that.

Would he?

Crowley didn’t want to text Luc’s mum. She had enough on her plate, he was sure.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck! What does this mean?”

Another message came in after a minute, filling the screen and then some. “She doesn’t appreciate a damn thing I’ve done to help this event stay afloat all these years. I’ve been insulted for the last time. By her. By my brother. By everyone. I’m done with it. I don’t need this shit. I’ll be better off staying away from them and their drama. Let’s see how badly they don’t need me. Hope they can find someone else to head up Sound on short notice. I. Am. Out.”

Crowley sucked in a thin breath.

“Please,” he typed, holding himself steady. “I need you.”

His head swam.

_Buzz._

_Buzz._

Two messages.

The first said, “Glad someone recognizes.”

The second, “I can’t hold your hand forever, C.”

Crowley frowned. This wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything wrong! As he went to reply, Luc messaged again. He was always so fast. Crowley didn’t understand how he did it.

Three devil emojis. “Stir up some trouble for me, would you?”

No. No, he didn’t want any part of that. Fran and Aggie were, well, they were good to him. There had been a dire shortage of people who were, least of all anyone’s parents, since he’d come out the second time. Trans? Hard enough. Trans and gay? For some reason that was harder to wrap one’s head around. Say nothing of his genderfuckery when it came to presentation.

Crowley arduously typed out his message, one letter at a time. “I’ll come home.”

His phone buzzed back almost instantly. “Do whatever you want.”

 _Oh, that’s a trap._ Without deigning to respond, Crowley pocketed the slim black phone. Luc needed to cool down from the tantrum he’d plunged headfirst into. He’d message again later when it seemed likely he wouldn’t end up a new target.

He shut his eyes and thought about what his therapist was always on about with his anxiety. Conventions were a trigger. Abandonment was a trigger. The both of them together? He didn’t know how he was still standing. If he didn’t get out ahead of it, he’d end up dissociating in the hotel room all night, or calling Luc in tears, or walking for miles until he didn’t even know where he was and no one could find him.

So he breathed, slowly, in for a count of three, hold four, out five. He reminded himself that he was safe. No one was going to hurt him. He could go back to the room, order some takeaway, and shower for an hour. No one was abandoning him. Luc was mad but it wasn’t about him. He went through affirmations and breathing exercises until his jaw unclenched and he could walk away without the urge to check his phone when it buzzed again.

“AJ!” came a shout from a floor above. “Good to see you out and about!”

Crowley turned back toward the escalator. There were very few people who he let call him by that old nickname. Agnes was one of them.

Like most of the early arrivals, Luc’s stepmother was already in costume. She headed up the con’s divination track and looked the picture of matronly grace, assuming said grace had been ripped from the pages of the seventeenth-century: her brown cotton dress swept past her booted ankles while hand-crocheted cream-colored lace modestly covered her shoulders and spilled about her wrists from the long sleeves of her bodice. How she’d handle the weather that weekend, Crowley couldn’t begin to guess.

“Aggie,” Crowley said, trying for warmth as she glided off the escalator over to him, peppering his stubbly cheek with kisses. “You look swell.”

“And _you_ look tired already.” She gave him a thorough once over, turning him this way and that before declaring, “Luc told you.”

“Nothing gets past you.”

“I’m sorry, dearling. Frances tried to reason with him but…” She shrugged.

“But he’s Luc. I know. No one’s fault but his own. Look, I don’t want to be a bother-”

“Never!”

“-but is it fine if I’m here tonight? I just… I think I could use the time t’myself right now. Maybe I’ll go home tomorrow, someone else can take the room-”

“Home? I thought you’d signed up with tech ops?”

“Nnyeah. I don’t know. I mean, seems foolish. Me being here. Him and Fran on the outs. I don’t want to be a sore reminder. Weekend’s going to be mad enough as it is.”

Agnes straightened up and tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder. “If it’s what you want, no one would hold it against you. But I promise, this monstrosity needs all the help we can get. Frances and Luc will sort themselves some other time.” She settled a wide, rough hand on Crowley’s cheek. “Stay. You’ll be surprised what a _nice_ time is ahead.”

When she said things like that, Crowley honestly believed her.

“Read that in your cards, did you?”

She laughed, big and loud, and Crowley smiled.

“Hey, Aggie, uh… You’ll know this. Where… do I get my badge?” He confessed, “I am utterly lost.”

“Do you know where the Sheraton is?”

Of course. “Yesss,” he said, eyes rolling in his head. “Where Luc and I were s’posed to stay.”

“Where _you’re_ staying.”

“Where _I’m_ staying. Thanks.”

“There’s an information table set up, or should be. Ask them for the volunteer ops. It’s upstairs but it’s a nightmare to find until you’ve been there.”

“You’re a doll. Hey, that’s your grandkid up there, innit?” Crowley pointed to one of the glass elevators, where a group of high school aged cosplayers were crammed inside. Their black and blue wizard robes pressed against the windows.

Agnes whirled. “Trying to set a record for how fast the hotel takes one of those offline, no doubt. I need to stop them. Thank you, AJ. I hope they put you in a divination room so I get to see you more this weekend.”

“I’ll have my phone on me if they don’t. Go on and wrangle Ana.”

She stormed off, tossing back a merry good night as she rode up the escalator toward her errant grandchild.

Knowing that Aggie wanted him there did wonders for Crowley’s nerves. He could be useful. And even if he didn’t think he could talk with Fran without wanting to vomit up his guts at the moment, she wasn’t going to kick him out.

“Back to the Sheraton,” Crowley said, willing his legs to move. They twinged with the first signs of fatigue.

As he headed toward the airlock doors at the entrance, he passed the front desk, lines growing longer by the second. The crowd shifted on their feet, collectively uncomfortable.

At the head of one line, a young couple were speaking in increasingly distressed tones. The woman was on the phone, wide eyed as she received terrible news, a hand drifting up to cover her mouth. The man tapped a pen nervously as he spoke to the gal behind the desk.

“No, I’m sorry,” said the gal. “It doesn’t seem to exist.”

“Can you look again?”

The young woman touched the man’s shoulder and shook her head. She was definitely about to cry.

Crowley stepped away, uncomfortable, uncertain why he’d stopped as long as he had.

But then he saw another man step away from dealing with his own clerk. He was pale and older than Crowley and with curling hair so brightly white-blond it had to be a wig. He spoke quietly to the woman and then the man, handing him the key card. They seemed to know each other.

When the older man turned to the gal behind the desk, Crowley relaxed. Everything was in order.

He stepped outside and found the smoking area. He plopped down on the metal bench. He tugged the half-crushed pack of imported black clove cigarettes and a Zippo from his back pocket, checking for his own key card as he did so.

All fine.

He lit up, glad Luc wasn’t there to chastise him about his filthy habit.

Crowley checked his watch. After eight. Shit. He’d forgot to take his meds. No wonder he’d reacted so poorly and hurt so much.

He lifted one spindly leg, wincing, and rubbed at his calf.

It wasn’t a far walk back to the Sheraton but… he didn’t want to start wasting money on taxis before the convention even started.

Dear God. He was not as young as he used to be, that was for certain. He was pushing forty, though not there yet. Truly, he was thankful Luc had had the room. Not that he would have offered to help out at the con if Luc’s mum expected him to curl up in a corner of a room stacked with seven other volunteers, his anorak tucked into a pillowcase and his knees digging into the carpet. But he’d made a few questionable choices in his day to secure half a bed for a night and wasn’t above doing so again. His face was no longer as _pretty_ , but his skills were much improved. As Luc would attest.

As he took a calming drag from the clove, someone rolled their suitcases over and plopped down beside him with the deepest sigh Crowley had heard since he’d knocked over a quart of paint thinner that spring. It was a sigh that said, _Of course. I did this to myself. This is my life. What did I expect?_

It was the pale gentleman from the check-in counter.

Sitting as close he was, Crowley couldn’t help but notice the man was younger than he’d appeared from across the crowd in the lobby. Maybe not much older than Crowley himself, then. And that hair wasn’t a wig. Dye job? Good bleach at a minimum.

He wore a coat the color of tea with too much milk in it, too warm for August in Atlanta, and Crowley could see a neat little bow tie at his throat and a waistcoat, too. Who was he cosplaying? Not one of The Doctors. Crowley knew the looks of all eleven.

 _Twelve_ , he mentally corrected as he recalled a new season had started back home earlier that week. _Not that I’ll get to see Capaldi here any time soon._

Past the old tyme clothes the stranger was, to Crowley’s dismay, unfairly beautiful. Nose upturned, lips rosy pink, with strong dark eyebrows. A lovely profile. Crowley would have painted him any day.

He had another puff of the cig and watched as the man fret beside him, lovely lips twisting and brow furrowed.

Crowley contemplated on the exhale. He needed a spark of beauty in his night what with everything the world had thrown at him already that weekend.

Couldn’t hurt, could it? Chat up a stranger while he finished his smoke? It was a big con. Probably wouldn’t even see him again.

Swallowing any shyness, Crowley pulled on his most confident persona and said in a low voice, “Long day, hmm?”

The man turned as if noticing for the first time that the bench had another occupant. He tried to be cheerful despite speaking with a stranger; his hazel eyes attempted to meet Crowley’s behind his glasses. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“I said, ‘Long day, hmm?’ You look like you could use a kip.”

“Oh. Yes, I rather could.” He spoke with a posh British accent, familiar to Crowley in a way he hadn’t realised he’d been missing since moving to the States. “At this juncture, I unfortunately don’t know where the nearest hotel might be with a room open.”

Confused, Crowley waved his cigarette toward the sliding doors of the Marriott. “Didn’t you have one here?”

The man glanced away. “Er...”

“Yeah, I saw you back there. Talking with the front desk clerk. What happened to it?”

The man muttered.

“What was that?”

“I gave it away!”

Crowley blinked behind his shades, eyebrows shot high. He took a drag on the clove, listening to the crackle over the street sounds of people arriving around them.

The man was oddly terrified, as if giving away a room was such a strange thing to do. Which, all right, it was. DivCon was notoriously difficult to snag a room at one of the event hotels a year out, let alone one of the main three. _Let alone_ the main one. Which the Marriott happened to be.

The stranger clutched a brown leather bag on his lap. When he spoke, it was in one breath. “Their booking agent messed up the weekends and they looked so miserable! And they were going to have to find a hotel that was certainly not in walking distance. And she’s expecting! So I said, here you go, let’s switch you into mine.”

Crowley gaped, a grin forming across his face.

The man shook his head. “They wanted to share it but it’s only a queen and so I said no, no, you take it. And don’t thank me. But now I-I-I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have presentations and I…” Another ragged sigh. “I do hope I did the right thing.”

“Lord. You’re a saint.” The words were out of Crowley’s mouth before he could stop them.

The man tutted. “Hardly.” But a quirk hit the corner of his lips, and Crowley knew he’d felt flattered.

He sat up, angling the burning end of his clove away as he did so. “Yeah you are. To that young couple, at least. A real guardian angel.”

“Well. Perhaps. But this _guardian angel_ has run out of miracles, I’m afraid. If I’m lucky, I’ll find somewhere farther out in the city and can get a driver out for me in the morning.”

Crowley sized up the bags. Beyond the satchel, there were only the two large rolling cases. “Presenting, you said? You’re a con guest?”

“Mm-hmm. I forwent a presenter's fee in exchange for flights and that room I’m now down.”

“Oh, that’s great then!”

The man shot him a questioning look.

“I mean, that you’re a presenter. Yeah, I work in tech ops. Volunteer, actually. But I have a room! It’s just the one bed but it’s a king. You could, you know, stay there.”

“Oh, I…” The man shut his mouth.

“What? Afraid? It’s the face tattoo, innit?” Crowley gave a lopsided grin, winking even though the man couldn’t see. “I’m harmless. Look, my _boyfriend_ was supposed to be here this weekend but he, uh, something came up. Last minute. Like, real last minute. Told me not fifteen minutes ago. So it’s just me in there.”

The man seemed to soften to the idea.

Crowley pressed onward. “I’m working afternoons. I’ll probably party till dawn downstairs. You’d hardly see me. And the bed would be all yours. I’ll sleep while you’re doing your presentations. Lit track, right?”

The man lit up. “Is it obvious?”

“Bit. So? Thoughts?” Crowley sucked down the last of his cigarette while he let the man contemplate, the sweet smoke swirling in his lungs, calming.

“You’re a staffer.”

“Volunteer.”

“And I wouldn’t be intruding?”

“If anything, you being there’ll keep me honest.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

Crowley stubbed out the clove and slipped it into the tall cigarette urn beside him. He wiped his hand on his jeans then extended it. “Crowley.”

“Pleasure to meet you Crowley…” The man’s hand was soft and warm as he clasped Crowley’s. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“Assyra… Vail.”

He laughed. “Almost. Ah-zeera-phale. Aziraphale. Though, most people at events call me The Professor.”

“You’re not one of those steampunkers, are you? Can’t stand those self-aggrandizing pricks.”

Aziraphale smirked. “Actually, we prefer the term steam _punks_.”

“Nnt. Aww, no. Aziraphale! _Why?_ ”

He laughed. “Oh, good! You’ve got my name down.”

Crowley stood, huffing, and hailed one of the waiting yellow cabs. “Can’t believe I’m gonna share my room with a bloody steampunker.”

Aziraphale didn’t stop smirking.

“All right, Professor,” Crowley said and bowed low. “Your chariot awaits. Let’s get you set up. Have you eaten?”

“Not since the plane.”

“Right. That’s a no.” Crowley grimaced. “Come on, _angel_. Your luck’s not run out yet.”

He helped load the suitcases into the boot of the cab while Aziraphale climbed into the backseat. Before he shut the lid, he checked his phone for the message he’d forgotten.

Yep. The manchild. “Don’t miss me too much,” he’d written.

“Yeah,” he whispered to no one, “I think not.”

As far as Crowley was concerned, for the following ninety-six hours, Luc Goddard could go to Hell.

Crowley set his phone to airplane mode and joined his new friend in the cab.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Chap contains a character experiencing internalized behavior-shaming around flirting and desire/enjoyment of sexual and kink activities.)

Even in just the short time Crowley had stepped out of his hotel, the Sheraton’s lobby had filled with con-goers and volunteers arriving in Atlanta’s downtown district. Old friends who hadn’t seen each other all year rushed to embrace, elated shouts and squeals blossoming into the low-ceilinged space, so unlike the rib-cage reminiscent Marriott. More than once, Crowley passed a huddle of younger cosplayers, heads bowed together and arms thrown over each others’ shoulders, as if synching their brains for the weekend ahead.

They reminded him of the better bygone days, not the miserable ones. When he’d had a cabal of friends and frenemies. As he wheeled the taller of Aziraphale’s luggage through the hall, Crowley thought how it wasn’t the people in particular that he missed but rather having anyone interested in a group cosplay. Even Luc never went in for couples’ costumes at Halloween, he’d learned. And the boy did not cosplay.

Crowley held the elevator for Aziraphale and the pack of Pokémon and galaxy Guardians who surged in after. “Someone press eleven, if you could?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Eleven?”

“Yep.” Crowley stepped inside, letting the doors close once the elevator had been jam packed. “Some guests go to ten. We go up to eleven.”

The blond flashed a look as they started to rise. “Good to know. I’ll need to leave early in the morning if I’m to make it to my presentation. Horrible schedule, honestly. I prefer taking it easy. A nice breakfast. Re-read my notes. Wind into the day instead. We’ll be ships in the night, you and I.”

“Told you it’d work out.”

He stole a glance at Aziraphale in the mirrored wall, hoping he wouldn’t catch him staring. Crowley fluffed the sagging red locks at the front of his short hair to cover, just in case. The man’s eyes were closed, affecting a grogginess that was somehow pure angelic.

_Absolutely unfair. Some people are just born to beauty._

The elevator stopped at nearly every floor on its ascent, emptying slowly. It was a dance Crowley didn’t hate exactly, that shuffle of people back to front when it was their turn, luggage bumping wildly, but it wasn’t one he ever delighted in. Though he took small pleasure in the chorus of “Going up” whenever waiting patrons peered inside from their little carpeted lobbies.

The doors closed at floor ten and they were alone. It was, he noted, the first time they had been so. No drivers, no gleeful children and adults. Only the hum and whirr of the machines at work and Crowley’s breath scraping too loudly down his throat.

Aziraphale turned to face him fully, eyes earnest-bright under the yellow lights. “Crowley, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Don’t say that.” He twisted, lips and shoulders and spine so he didn’t see when Aziraphale reached a hand to touch the sleeve of his jacket. Only a moment, enough to get his attention piqued and his heart stuttering, too.

Was this flirting?

It happened sometimes. Be enough of a casual flirt and eventually someone picks up and starts tossing back. Sometimes that was fine. Meaningless on both ends. No harm done.

The real question, the knee-jerk of a question Crowley had been asking since men with wandering eyes and hands first started noticed him a lifetime ago: was he safe with this person?

Crowley mentally retraced their brief interactions, hoping he hadn’t gone too far with his own put-on charm. What had been his tone? Had he leaned in too much when this man spoke to him? Was there a wiggle in his walk and a giggle in his talk?

“I mean it,” said Aziraphale, distracting Crowley from his very reasonable over-thinking. “I’d still be on that bench if it weren’t for you. _Berating_ my impulsiveness.”

“Really, it’s fine.”

Crowley faced the doors, keenly aware of how small the elevator truly was and how, even with the heavy heel of his boots and the lifts inside that made him tower over Luc, the other man was barely shorter. Broader certainly, too. Could probably snap Crowley in half with a look. His pulse quickened at the thought, but not from any fear. His ears burned.

Steadily, settling back into himself, he said, “One big con family, yeah?” 

“Well, anyway,” Aziraphale said, unconvinced and unaware of Crowley’s internal flip-flopping, “I’m very grateful. What if I buy dinner?”

The elevator slowed at their floor, normal gravity hesitant to return.

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eyes. Hope. That’s what he saw there. Nothing malicious. No wanton suggestiveness either. Just a fellow Brit, plunged into a sea of American everything. Who knew if he’d even been there before?

He was just being polite. Friendly. That, more than anything, made Crowley want to take Aziraphale’s offer. His own dinner plan consisted of a shiny red apple, a meal replacement protein bar, and the reclamation of two ciders from the pack he’d brought for Luc presently cooling in the room’s mini-fridge. It would have been nice if he could kick back, wriggle out of the binder he’d been in since noon, and get to know this sudden guest better.

“Have to be some other night, I’m afraid,” Crowley said. The doors opened and he wheeled out the hardback case. “Need to get my badge from the Volunteer HQ and then there’s a training I’m slotted in for at ten. Last one of the night. It’s required to do my shifts or I’d skip out.”

“How long does that take? I need a shower for every hour of that flight. Nonstop from London! And then the airport. And the drive. Any idea who does takeaway around here?”

Crowley held his amusement tight across his lips, watching the other man scoot backward into the floor’s landing. Aziraphale caught him smirking when he didn't answer.

“Oh! You probably want to meet with friends,” Aziraphale said, laughing at himself. “I may be a tad over-eager. I’m definitely hungrier than I thought back at the Marriott.”

“Naw, it’s nice. Enthusiastic. S’good for cons.”

Crowley checked the arrows on the walls for their rooms. The listings always confused him. He motioned left and Aziraphale dogged him down the thin corridor. It would be hellish to leave on Monday when everyone else was packing out. He’d see about extending the room to Tuesday morning. Another night away from home appealed more than it should.

“Tell you what,” Crowley said as they arrived at their room at last. He leaned Aziraphale’s case against the wall and fished the door card from his pocket. “I’ve got some mates but no one I planned to see tonight. Boyfriend and I had a nice clean room to ourselves. Stressful weekend ahead. You get the idea?”

He watched Aziraphale’s cheeks turn a flattering rosy shade as he definitely pictured Crowley with a few layers removed and in a compromising position or two.

_Dammit._ He was flirting again. _Have to stop that. We’re roommates now!_

“Err, shouldn’t have said that. Anyway, my point is. The point I am trying to make is,” Crowley said, searching for the card swipe around the intrusive thought that said this evening the part of Luc would be played by the handsome older gent he’d absconded with. “My point. _Is._ Dinner. That’s m’point.”

“What about it?”

Crowley grit his teeth and steadied his hand for another try at the magnetic strip. “I want. To have dinner with you. If you like.”

The mechanism beeped. Light turned green. Crowley swiftly opened the door, kicking it wide and holding it with his sharp hip.

“Ah ha! Triumph. _Entrez._ ”

Aziraphale stepped inside the well-cooled hotel room while Crowley ducked back into the corridor for the final case and continued speaking.

“I mean, you can have dinner without me. You’re starved. I remember that flight. Shit, aren’t you jet lagged? But, uh, maybe you’ll have room for dessert when I…” He trailed off as the door clicked shut behind him.

Aziraphale hadn’t made it far past the en-suite before he’d apparently turned aboutface. He stood rigid before his host with satchel in hand and an unreadable expression on his gaze firmly schooled on Crowley’s face. Some part stunned, or possibly amused, or both.

“You, uh…” The man swallowed visibly. “You weren’t kidding when you said you had a different night planned.”

“What do you--” Crowley stopped. He blanched, knowing very intimately the scene his guest had walked in on. “Oh, fuck. Oh. _Fuckitall._ Aziraphale, I am so sorry! Let me clear that shit up. Here, just… Two minutes. Use the toilets if you need? Wash up? Good? Okay.”

Before any hint of ditching out for the weekend, Luc had sweetly asked Crowley what he fancied for their evening’s entertainment and to have choices ready before he arrived. Crowley had meticulously packed his toys--and just a few of Luc’s so as not to be too much of a brat--and set them out in the open ever so prettily. Then, having wandered the halls of the Sheraton and then the streets of Atlanta before he arrived at the main hotel on his hunt for a badge, he had blanked on the buffet of pain and pleasure lurking in room eleven-eleven awaiting his boyfriend’s approval. His mind had completely turned from them even more when the kindest man he’d ever met needed rescuing.

This wasn’t the devastation and destruction he’d expected from the implements but he couldn’t muster up surprise.

He snarled under his breath as he swept away Luc’s monstrous Bad Dragon device, “Fucking. Creepy arsehole.” He snatched the locking hood and his fancy noise-cancelling headphones. “Invite a stranger to your room and… Look at this... Shit… Like a fucking dungeon, is what it looks like!”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Y-yeah. I do? Not gonna have you clean up my, er…” Crowley shoved away the string of clothespins he held, chucking it into his open baggage by the floor-to-ceiling windows where the gauzy inner curtain flaunted the city lights. “No.”

“I was referring to the negative self-talk.”

Crowley blinked, pausing only briefly. He couldn’t process those words between his haze of embarrassment.

“I’m not scandalised, Crowley. I don’t know if you’re familiar with London, but I work in Soho? I hear things. See them, really. Not what I’m meaning. This all,” he said and gestured to the rapidly clearing bedspread, “seemed very private and I only- I felt I was intruding.”

Crowley threw the last of the toys into the open zip pouch of his travel bag’s lid, never more relieved that he preferred to have Luc’s body used against him than the more expensive paraphernalia his boyfriend favored with other play partners.

His reply came out clipped and brusque. “You’re not. I forgot. That’s all.”

Aziraphale sat on the edge of the king bed, the white comforter dipping beneath his weight. What was possible pity lingered in his soft eyes. “This must be very hard for you.”

“Well, at least _one_ thing’s hard for me this weekend. Fuck! Shut- Mmmf.” Crowley pressed a fist to his mouth and spun away. “I’m going to stop talking.”

With the tip of his boot, he shoved his offending luggage into the corner far away from Aziraphale. He wished the shadows would swallow it up, send it express mail to Luc moping about at their flat. _Apartment._

Behind him, Aziraphale said, “He really left you alone at the last minute, didn’t he?”

Crowley collapsed into the stout guest chair, his too long legs akimbo. One black-painted nail scratched compulsively at the woven fabric of the armrest as he stared down the empty nothing of Luc’s abandonment. Con friends--single serving friends, as a one Mr. Durden might say--could offer and receive plenty of temporary unburdening, see a problem without all the gunk of closeness to the people involved. It made it easy to seek permission for outrage, to thin the paint of multifaceted lives into muted greys.

Crowley wasn’t sure he wanted people to know any deep personal truths if it meant starting with the phrase, _I’m worried my boyfriend forgets I’m a person when we’re not in the same room._

If he opened his mouth, he wouldn’t get it shut again, so stuffed was his throat with months of insecurity and raw need.

Some other night they could talk, if it came up. Maybe when he broke into the ten-year Talisker he’d brought for Sunday.

“It happens,” he said at length.

Aziraphale looked alarmed. “Regularly?”

“No, just… You know. Plans change.” He couldn’t get into it. He had shit to do. It was eight-forty and- “Christ, almost forgot again.”

Crowley arched out of the seat and strode across the modest bathroom, skirting past Aziraphale as he did so. When he saw the pink strapless strap-on air drying on a towel on the counter, he said a silent thanks that the other man hadn’t taken his suggestion to duck in there. He chucked the silicone toy into its bag, tucked the whole affair under his arm, and grabbed his Thursday evening pill container on the way out.

“Everything all right?”

He shook the pills and went for the complimentary bottled water on the writing desk.

“Ahh, always important.”

As Crowley set about taking his meds, skipping the ones that interacted poorest with the alcohol he would definitely consume upon return, Aziraphale dragged his bags to the closet and opened it.

“You cosplay!” He exclaimed, “How lovely.”

Crowley smiled tightly around a mouthful of water. “You can push those to the side if they’re in your way.”

“I’ll unpack later,” Aziraphale said, not venturing further into the conversation. He reached into the leather satchel resting at the food of the bed, retrieved his phone’s long-corded charger and plug adapter. “I want to order before anything else.”

“Not sure if the front desk has menus,” Crowley said.

“On it.” Aziraphale waved his smartphone, sleeker and newer than Crowley’s. The internet, yes, that was a thing that existed. “Are there allergies I should be aware of? Preferences?”

So Crowley stretched his arms over his head, wiggling them from side to side while he breathed deep against the binder constricting his chest, and told his new roommate about his lactose intolerance and that he was currently vegetarian. He couldn’t eat anything too heavy so late in the day, and didn’t like the chips they served at the American joints.

“Quite. How does that make you feel about Mediterranean?”

“Aviva? They don’t deliver.”

“I’ll find somebody to get it for me.”

The quiet confidence drilled a shiver up Crowley’s spine. “In that case,” he said, “I’ve had the falafel pita. It’s excellent.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’ll get two of those. Dessert?”

“None for me. Do an extra side of hummus, would you?”

He scrolled the menu, lounging against the bed. “Pistachio baklava sounds scrummy. Think I’ll get an order of those, save them for after lunch tomorrow.”

“ _Scrummy_ ,” Crowley mocked.

Aziraphale’s face drained of amusement with just a lift of his brows. “Shall I bring up a dictionary?”

“You plan on using words like that all the time? Or just getting into character?”

“Says the man wearing sunglasses at night.”

Crowley chuckled. He pulled cash from his wallet and set more than enough to pay for both their dinners on the bedside table. He already liked having this gent around. “That should cover it. I’m gonna go. Here’s the extra key, in case you need to step out. Ice or some such. Plenty of towels. Ciders are in the mini fridge. Help yourself. Wine, too. Water’s free.”

“I see they provided a kettle.”

Crowley waved off the coffee maker on the hotel dresser. “Wouldn’t use that. I brought mine from home. Hadn’t set it out yet. You want me to?”

“For the morning, if you could.”

Crowley gave one last look around. “Right then. Time to leave the hotel room. Don’t, uh, don’t tell me if you find anything else I left out.”

“I’ll set it in your luggage if I do.”

“Don’t- Mm. Sure.”

“Good luck!”

Crowley took one last look--one last long look--at Aziraphale before finally rushing out.

It seemed odd, leaving this mostly-a-stranger in his room to use his shower and eat at his desk and probably pass out in his bed. Yet, by the time Crowley had calmed down from what was arguably the worst first impression of his life, it had been almost natural having Aziraphale there with him. Like he’d known him for years from the old con scenes. If he hadn’t needed to pop out, Crowley could actually have confided in another human being for once.

It was dangerous, that.

_Liminal space problems_ , Crowley thought. The room was his but it wasn’t. The weekend had started but hadn’t.

He had a boyfriend but not one who showed up.

Crowley waited for the elevator with his hands crowded into his pockets. He’d need to keep himself in check. Otherwise, he might ask Aziraphale’s opinions on the old Vegas-riffing jokes about ‘what happens at con stays at con’.

Which, beyond Luc’s existence, there were a dozen reasons not to ask: Aziraphale could be heterosexual. He could be ace. He could have taken a vow of chastity. He could be in a relationship. Or monogamous. Or like muscled-up superhero types or only interested in fellow steampunkers.

“Steam _punks_ ,” Crowley corrected and then hissed. “Bloody hell. Now _he’s_ in my head, too?”

The elevator dinged.

When the doors opened, three cosplayers were already inside, dressed in the solid color clothes of cartoon children. The one wearing a pink bunny-eared hat cracked a wide, vicious grin and cackled, “Going down? Muwahaha!”

Oh Lord. Crowley was doomed.


	3. Chapter 3

“Next!”

Crowley stepped up to the low check-in desk, where a DivCon volunteer in a bright purple shirt--the con’s angelic/demonic logo emblazoned across the chest--lorded over a landscape of lanyards and badges, swag bags and con booklets. From everything he had heard from Luc and his moms, the convention’s volunteer pool was impressive. It had to be, with fifty thousand people expected and countless departments in need of help. Crowley used to hit up little events back home whose attendance numbers almost reached DivCon’s volunteer force, that level of huge. The Volunteer Headquarters sat tucked in a back corner of the second floor of the hotel with signs eagerly pointing the way and blue painter’s tape running arrows along the carpets past a trio of panel rooms in case of confusion.

The volunteer behind the table smiled in a way that impressed upon Crowley the image of a sharp-toothed sea monster, lurking the lower depths for prey. “Day shift or night?”

“Day.”

The volunteer sighed and reached for a blindingly white binder thick with paper. “Another angel. Last name.” It wasn’t a question.

“Crowley. Anthony.” He slid his ID across the covered table.

They leered up at him. “Didn’t ask for first name yet. _Did_ I?”

Even though they’d clearly asked a question, Crowley had the sense he’d be bitten in half if he attempted an answer. He stood straighter, unsure where the impulse came from.

While the volunteer flipped through the hefty three-ring binder of names from _Ca- to Dz-_ , Crowley peered at their badge and the bold lettered nickname thereon.

“Dagon,” he said, sounding out the name. “Are you friends with Beez, by chance?”

Dagon pursed their shimmery-painted lips and glared. He’d interrupted their flow.

“Ze, uh, works Sound with Luc?” Unable to help himself, he added, “Goddard. Fran’s son. Owns the con.”

“I know,” they said. Dagon shook their head, their severe ponytail swishing. They snatched up Crowley’s ID, double checked the page. “Do you have another name this could be under?”

Crowley paled. Another name? Why would anyone list him under a different name? He’d had that changed, legally, years before he ever left England.

“I’m not sure. You could… Could you try…” Swallowing past the dryness in his throat, Crowley leaned forward until he was very close to the registrar. He whispered a name he hadn’t spoken in years. It felt blasphemous to even mention it. At any moment, the ground would open up beneath him, devour him whole for even invoking the presence of who he used to be. Swarms of guards would descend, drag him back to a trial before his peers, find him guilty. Fake. Liar. Looking for attention. Just a phase, really.

Dagon did not repeat the name, either out of understanding or professionalism or both. They only looked put-upon about needing to get out of their seat to fetch another white binder from a different check-in table further down the row. They flipped through the pages on their return and whispered back to Crowley the spelling for confirmation.

He breathed with purpose and rubbed the rough fabric of his jeans. He wished he’d worn his jacket down from the room to hide behind like armour. The sunglasses were a blessing.

“When did you sign up?”

“Months ago. I…”

When he’d visited Luc the previous year for a few weeks, he’d opted out of attending the con officially. But that Sunday night, Luc threw a room party and snuck Crowley in with a friend’s badge so he could hang out, meeting all of his boyfriend’s nearest and dearest. They were a motley bunch, but creative, fun. They loved Luc and they loved that Crowley made him happy. He’d decided then that he wanted to move to the States and that he wouldn’t miss another DivCon. So when everything settled, Crowley stepped up to help. Just something small. Luc trained Crowley on the light tech needed for the smaller panel rooms--projectors and mics and speakers at a minimum--and promised Crowley didn’t need to go through all the hoops of registering as a volunteer online. But he’d seen enough handshake deals go sour from above-the-rules hotshots to know how very sideways those usually went, so he’d signed up through legitimate channels anyway just in case.

Which was why none of this made sense.

“Can you look again under ‘Crowley’? I definitely signed up. I’ve been getting the emails.”

Dagon motioned for another volunteer behind the tables, and without a word the other one knew to take over processing the few other volunteers who’d piled up behind Crowley.

He was in the way. He was causing trouble. He was being a nuisance.

_Breathe._

Antsy, Crowley tapped his toes and checked the chunky watch with the easily-readable face on his wrist. He could still make the training if this mess solved itself soon.

“Do you know your department head?” Dagon was speaking to him.

“Intimately,” Crowley muttered then spoke up louder. “Uh, Luc Goddard was heading but I don’t think it’s him anymore. Do you know who’s second on Technical Operations?”

“You _said_ you’ve been getting the emails.” It was clear by the leer and the snarl that their patience had run out. Dagon pointed at a series of tables on the opposite wall and pulled a saccharine smile. “Sit at the computers. I’ll radio someone to come help. I’m _sure_ it’s just a mix up in the paperwork.”

Bloody fucking paperwork. Crowley sulked off to the corner while Dagon went back to work with another volunteer.

Curled against the desk with his head in one hand, Crowley considered messaging Luc to ask him what the hell happened. But he recoiled. He knew what had happened: he’d made a mistake. Somewhere in there, he hadn’t followed a direction perfectly and there he was, a thirty-nine year old man feeling like a kid who hadn’t understood the assignment.

_The real mistake,_ Crowley thought miserably, _came from thinking I could do this on my own again without hitting some wall._

Wallowing in self-pity, Crowley almost missed a familiar face stalk into the HQ. He’d met Beez at that room party and, while he wouldn’t say they were friends exactly, ze was over often and seemed to tolerate Crowley. Which Luc had assured him was admirable: ze _barely_ tolerated Luc, and they’d had a queerplatonic kink dynamic together for the better part of the last decade.

Beez strode over to Dagon’s, who beamed at the short dark-haired whirlwind. It was clear to Crowley that they knew each other.

He did his best not to eavesdrop. When Dagon pointed him out, he smiled weakly. Beez shut zir eyes, looking ready to toss him off a cliff.

Luc’s friend turned back to chat. After a moment, Dagon brightened--if such a thing were possible. More, they seemed to radiate a wicked satisfaction.

They grabbed a pitch black folder from the pile as Beez made for the door, taking long, fast strides and gaze forward.

“Beez?” Crowley called after zir, racing to stand on uncertain legs. Shit. It had been a long day.

Ze whirled, ready to snap at whosoever disturbed their brooding exit. Then Beez recognized Crowley and frowned. “Luc’s really tossing us to the wolves at the last minute, is he?”

“Something between him and Fran, it seems. Didn’t get the details. Yet.”

“Fucking typical Luc. Well, _she’s_ making her opinion on that known. Go talk to Dagon,” ze said, gesturing to where the registrar did nothing to hide their impatience. “They’ve got your new assignment.”

“New?” Crowley’s empty stomach lurched.

“We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll text your schedule in the hour. Any track preferences?”

“Literature,” he blurted out. Crowley squirmed. “Sci-fi. Or, uh, Divination would be fine, I guess. Aggie still likes me.”

He caught Beez assessing what ze knew about him with the quirk of one thin eyebrow. If asked, he’d say he wanted a no muss, no fuss weekend. But his new boss left without giving him another moment to make an ass of himself.

Crowley returned to Dagon, who was gathering his badge and lanyard, shoving them into the swag bag. “I’m all sorted?”

“There were a few personnel changes. Someone should have told you.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“You’re what, men’s medium? Small?”

“Medium is fine.” He didn’t need a small to start suggesting any shapes he didn’t intend. Crowley eyed the black binder, still open on the table. He could see his name clearly on the page. “What’s the difference? Black book versus white?”

“Night shift.” Dagon turned the binder to face him and held out a pen. “Sign here.”

Crowley grabbed the pen and hesitated, blinking. “That… That’s not right,” he said even as he signed his real name, his chosen name. “I was in for daytime. Afternoon.”

The corners of their icy blue eyes crinkled with mischief. “Mm. You may have started out as an angel,” Dagon said, as they handed over the bag, “but _you_ are _Fallen_. Welcome to the night crew, fellow demon.”

_No. No, no, no._ He had plans!

Dagon peered past him. “Next!”

Dazed, Crowley backed away from the table with the bag clutched close. He drifted into the hall, scooting around high-spirited volunteers on their way to start their weekend.

_How did this happen? I did everything right. I thought? Didn’t I?_

Beez had said something about Fran. Making her opinion known, was it?

He stopped in a corner of the corridor, practically shoving himself out of the way, and went for his phone. It took him two tries to unlock it on shaking fingers. Once he’d left airplane mode, a flurry of messages lit across the screen.

Luc. Luc-Luc-Luc. Luc. Then they stopped abruptly at nine.

Crowley texted Beez. “Did she move all of us?”

_Or just me?_

With how busy and unprepared to deal with Crowley’s shit Beez had seemed, zir reply came in faster than he’d expected. “Anyone connected to Luc who wasn’t already. Yes.”

So. It went all the way to the top and then down. Even appealing to Aggie wouldn’t be enough.

_Shit. Fuck. Dammit, Luc! Never thinking about anyone else, are you?_

Like a ghost, Crowley drifted through the halls, shared a ride back to the main hotel, and barely found his way to the training session. He could have missed it for all he cared at that point. There was suddenly plenty of time before his shift.

Eight in the evening, Beez had texted him during the presentation. Just as the stars would be coming out, Crowley would be stuck into a room at the hotel at the top of the hill, as far away as possible from the themed dances and glowing raves and lobby DJs. There’d be no people watching from the bars until the latest of the late night crowd. At least he only had to do a four-hour shift on Sunday to make his hours. Where he might have offered to help more before, he had no desire to give until he bled. Not with Frances Goddard taking away _his_ choices because of what _her_ son did.

Crowley absorbed the lessons from the instructor and from the video the large group crowded around a laptop to watch. Safety measures. Badge checks. Lost and found. What to do if someone needed help because they were drunk or injured. Fire exits. There was a somber discussion about the Station Nightclub fire that made Crowley’s heart sink for the one hundred lives lost. Active shooter protocols. Heaven and Hell forbid anything like that happen.

He knocked on the wooden chair for good measure.

For the second time that evening, Crowley signed his name. This one said he attended and completed the training--the hour at least counted toward the twenty he needed to maintain good standing as a volunteer--and received the miniature packet of procedures and high-ups’ contacts to clip to his lanyard. He did not, at any point, check his messages from Luc.

In the cacophonous lobby of the Marriott once more, Crowley considered joining the revelry on the open atrium level above. The bar, Pulse, was going full tilt and would be for hours. It was barely after eleven. Chances were Aziraphale had passed out back at the room. He could hop a shuttle to the Sheraton, find a suitably skimpy outfit--the better to garner meaningless attention and feel better about his miserable self--and return to party before midnight. Maybe he’d take someone up on an offer to buy him a drink and have a proper snog by the front fountain.

Or maybe he’d crawl into the shower and have a good scream instead.

What was he doing?

Crowley skirted past an inflatable tyrannosaurus rex being led inside by their handler and climbed into the waiting shuttle in the porte-cochère. In the short amount of time it took to arrive at his stop, he’d decided to cut his losses and call it a night. A full night’s sleep would do more good than drowning his sorrow in a steady stream of cocktails.

The lock accepted his room key on the first try. Inside, the blue light of the television flickered in the darkness, the volume low. Crowley shut the door slowly, not wanting to wake his roommate.

The bolt clicked. A rustle of blankets sounded from within.

“Crowley?” For some indiscernible reasons, Aziraphale sounded wide awake.

He relaxed. “Yeah, just me. No nighttime housekeeper, I’m afraid.”

“Is that a thing?”

Crowley peered around the corner as he slipped out of his boots. “You look comfortable.”

In his absence, Aziraphale had made himself perfectly at home, snuggled up on a mountain of pillows. He had changed into what were probably very soft plaid pants in a grey and blue pattern. He had on a powder blue crew neck top and a grey cardigan over that. Through the open door of the closet, Crowley could see neatly draped clothes and costumes, carefully tucked to the far right away from damaging his big project. The fan was going in the en-suite, suggestive of a long, warm shower.

Good. Crowley wanted one of them to have a nice start to their weekend.

“And you found someone to deliver Aviva. Smells good.”

“Yours is in the fridge, by the way. I moved around those ciders so be careful opening the door. Do you have _other_ plans for food this weekend? Beyond the…” Aziraphale gestured to the dresser, the pile of red apples and protein bars, the jar of peanut butter.

“I don’t eat much,” Crowley offered and sauntered to the fridge in stocking feet.

Aziraphale frowned. “You don’t seem to turn down being fed. I’ll keep in mind that you _can_ be tempted.”

Crowley tossed a look over his shoulder from where he crouched at the mini fridge. “Did you really just offer to _tempt_ me?”

The blond simply looked smug.

_Ooh, he’s definitely flirting._ Crowley grinned at the thought, turned away as he was.

His whole weekend was shot, but at least it held the promise of pleasant distraction every once in a while. When his day crossed paths with Aziraphale’s. They’d be working the event from different ends, but maybe they could find time. Get to know each other better.

Crowley set the takeaway container on the simple desk by the chair he’d collapsed into earlier. He grabbed a canvas bag from underneath and went about setting up his kettle for the morning, plugging it in where the coffee maker had been.

From the bed, Aziraphale took notice. “That’s very kind. Thank you. I trust your training was a resounding success?”

“Eh. The usual. Don’t engage the arseholes. Call your supervisor, never the cops. Don’t come to shift soused or stoned. Save it for after.”

He ducked into the bathroom to take out his contacts and free his lungs from his binder. He slipped into the cool fabric of his favorite black lounge trousers, pulled on a snakeskin print muscle vest to sleep in.

While he changed, he continued to chat. “Got some swag at check-in. Haven’t looked through it all yet. There’s a shirt though. Seems nice? Probably won’t figure out the booklet until tomorrow. God, I thought I’d be more awake.”

“I haven’t seen the con book yet. I should retrieve my presenter's badge first thing tomorrow.”

Crowley paused as he went or his sunglasses again. Seemed silly, didn’t it, to keep wearing them? He went without in private usually.

But he didn’t know Aziraphale well yet.

_Sure, and he’s bound to see me without them at some point. So why not take charge of when?_

Crowley grabbed the other case from his leather travel kit and put on his normal prescriptions. He took one look at himself in the mirror, at the honeyglow of his natural amber eyes, and tore the glasses from his face. He replaced them with the shades and returned to the bedroom.

He scooped up the plastic swag bag from the floor and tossed it onto the bed. “Here you go. Knock yourself out.”

“Ah! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done one of these only to have my discussions listed in the wrong rooms on the printed schedule. These days, at least, I can send a quick tweet and word spreads.” Delighted, Aziraphale turned out its contents. His wide fingers roamed the pinback buttons and vendor discount postcards.

Crowley ducked to the fridge again. “Cider?”

“That would be heavenly, yes.”

Crowley twisted the caps from the bottles. He handed the first to Aziraphale before flopping into one chair and kicking up his feet on the other. He took a healthy sip from his drink. The crisp dry apple flavor washed away so much tension he actually moaned.

“Mm. Needed that.” Crowley dug into the container on the desk, eager for the deep-fried mashed chickpea balls, and the cabbage salad, and the creamy tahini. He crammed an unreasonable amount of hummus into the cold sandwich. “Tweeting. Isn’t that too modern for your people?”

Aziraphale made a sound like he was pondering. “Anthony J. Crowley.”

There was a certain thrill to hearing his first name pronounced correctly in such an invitingly familiar accent. “Using my full name,” he said with a smirk as he went to take a bite of his pita. “Am I in trouble?”

Aziraphale scoured him with a quick look. “Would you like to be?”

Crowley choked on his falafel.

But Aziraphale continued. “I wasn’t sure if the name you went by was a convention nickname or not. But I see it here,” he said, holding up the hard plastic badge on its bright purple lanyard. “One never knows at these events. I met a young fellow whose mother named him Lestat. What’s the J stand for?”

“Mmm.” Crowley reached for his cider and cleared his throat. “Just a J really.”

He wasn’t being coy. He’d chosen the letter because he liked how it looked there, all put together. And it distanced him further from where he’d nicked the rest of his name.

_I should_ be _so lucky to have this lily white duck come and gobbled me up._

Instead of letting his mind wander into further intrusive fantasy, Crowley took a settling breath. He had to finish his dinner or he never would. He could flirt at--or hopefully with--Aziraphale after.

“I once met a gent who named his kid Sephiroth,” Crowley mused. “Like the Final Fantasy character. The video games, you know?”

Aziraphale tittered. “Well, no worse than what my mother saddled me with, I suppose.”

“Maybe. But imagine being that little lad and you go to play this old game and boom! You find you’re named after an antagonist.”

“With parents who’d name him after such, I’d be surprised if he managed not to grow up surrounded by that information.”

“Wait, _is_ your given name Aziraphale?”

He nodded, white-gold curls bouncing.

“Truly?”

“It’s far worse than you know,” he said dourly but with still a hint of playfulness. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

Crowley lifted his glass bottle by the neck. “Cheers then.”

While Crowley ate, Aziraphale unrolled the volunteer shirt--they both admired the DivCon logo with its halo-dotted I and a devil tail curling off the N--and then perused the con book.

“How are you still awake? Has to feel past four in the morning for you, doesn’t it?”

“I slept a bit on the plane, but I honestly couldn’t tell you. At this rate, I’ll be on your schedule.”

Crowley snorted. “Oh, they’ve changed it.”

“Changed what?”

“My schedule. Afternoons weren’t doing it for them. A bit too visible for the Big Boss.”

“So what is it now?”

“Evening.”

Aziraphale tsked.

“Yep. Eight till four. Though only to midnight on Sunday. So kind of them,” Crowley said with a sneer.

“What a shame. You’ll miss me agonizing over what to wear to the Steampunk Ball.”

“A tragedy.” Crowley tried not to imagine Aziraphale in a three piece suit and gloves. He failed.

“So Sunday night, then, I shouldn’t expect you to wander in until dawn?”

With great force of will, Crowley closed up the last half of his meal to save it for the next day. “I am definitely extending the room for another night. No way I can pack out by noon after that.”

It took him another moment of psyching himself up to stand and put away the food.

“Ugh. Legs. Why do I have them?”

“They seem new enough. You could probably get your money back.”

“Ha ha.” Crowley stretched, craning his neck and spine, hearing several satisfying crackles. “I’m going to close up the room and get to bed early. If that’s good?”

Aziraphale exhaled slowly. “If you don’t, I’m likely to stay up all night reading every inch of this. And then charting my every minute on the app.”

“There’s an app?”

“You work for the con and don’t know there’s an app?”

Crowley tugged the curtains closed. “I don’t really use my phone for much. Texts. Calls. A friend put Twitter on it once and I think it got a virus.”

“Aren’t you dear.”

Crowley gaped, indignant. “Oi! Watch your mouth.”

“You are! Why, I only play at being from another century and yet here you are: a sweet little relic from the nineties.”

Crowley hissed, “They didn’t have _texting_ in the nineties.”

“I see you’re not arguing that you’re a relic.”

Crowley muttered and went for the television clicker.

“Oh, could you leave it on? I’m used to much more noise than this. I’m afraid I won’t fall asleep otherwise.”

“You think I’m going to do anything for you right now, you’re mistaken.”

“Please,” Aziraphale said, damn near batting his dark lashes.

“That is not going to work with me.” But Crowley walked away from the television anyway. “You’re on thin ice. _‘Sweet’?_ I am not _sweet_. I am a cranky old man.”

“Didn’t you say I was an angel earlier? I think an angel would know sweet when he sees it. Cranky old men don’t tend to help strangers who give away their lodgings.”

He downed the last of his cider and plunked the glass into the rubbish. With two fingers pointed at Aziraphale, he said, “Thin fucking ice.”

There was an extra swagger in his step as he headed past the bed.

With the bathroom light and fan off, the Do Not Disturb tag hung on the outside handle, and the swinging door latch thrown just in case, Crowley dealt with his night routine. As he was brushing his teeth, he decided to skip the shower since he’d had one earlier. He’d catch another when he woke up. The single cider had given him a pleasant buzz, one that would lull him to sleep quickly.

“Sink’s open if you need it.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “I’m going over my notes once more.”

Crowley plugged in his phone and checked his copious alarms with their decreasing forgiveness.

He contemplated: the trousers on or only boxers? His chest was small enough that he didn’t need to switch into the sports bra but he wasn’t going to wear that alone, that was for sure. Aziraphale didn’t look ready for bed, so he had no idea of expectations and courtesy. Could be his guest planned to wear some old-school long johns to bed, complete with conspicuously placed flap like a true time-traveller.

He kept the lounge trousers on and turned down the blankets. Yup. They were just two guys being dudes. In a hotel room. Alone.

As he slithered into bed, Crowley realized he _could have been_ making out with a stranger by then. Instead, he’d chosen to torment himself, thinking about this beautiful almost-stranger beside him in his nightwear with no one else looking. He practically choked on his heart.

Crowley motioned to Aziraphale’s phone. “So… Does that way lay staying up all night reading, too?”

The man laughed lightly. “Luckily, no. But you will probably be asleep before me.”

The idea of Aziraphale watching him toss and turn for hours as he tried to find a comfortable position didn’t appeal. What if he kicked? Not that he’d ever kicked anyone in his sleep, but what if his legs chose that night to start?

Aziraphale smiled down at him where he lay fretting. “Good night, Crowley. May you dream of whatever you like best.”

With everything going on in his head, Crowley wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. “Thanks,” he squeaked. “Just, uh, smother me if I bother you or start snoring.”

Some dark amusement fluttered across Aziraphale’s otherwise innocent face. Crowley’s insides twisted.

He swallowed and turned away. “Good night, angel.”

* * *

Hours later, Crowley cracked open an eye. He peered past thick lashes into the eigengrau dark, sleep drunk and misplaced by transient comforts. Before him, the plush mattress dipped and trailed a valley to the living being snoring gently on his side. Filled with tender feeling, he reached instinctively, closing the fraction of a distance between them until his nails found his boyfriend’s forearm. He smoothed his fingertips across, readying to gather him up, and drew in a sharp breath of surprise.

All soft velvet electricity, this skin felt like no one’s skin.

Crowley’s mind collided with memory of the convention and the hotel. Of the drinking and venting and falling asleep beside not his boyfriend but Aziraphale.

His pulse raced in his throat. He had lovingly caressed Aziraphale.

No one else knew. He could fix it.

Reluctantly, he removed his hand and pulled back from the other man’s arm. Not far but enough. He settled his fingers nearby on the crisp white sheet, where he could still feel the comforting heat of Aziraphale lull him back to dream.

If they happened to touch later, if Aziraphale shifted in his spot and stretched in his sleep, if he curled a gentle hand over Crowley’s delicate wrist, well then, that was no one’s fault.

Was it?


	4. Chapter 4

29 August, 2014

DivineCon, Day 1

Aziraphale was, as Crowley learned early on Friday morning, very good at moving mouse-like around sleeping roommates. His fellow Brit would have slipped soundlessly from the room if it weren’t for a series of raps on their door that startled Crowley awake, or at least halfway there.

“Oh! Goodness,” he heard Aziraphale in the bathroom, a sudden clunk, and then the door opened.

“Professor!” said a pair of men’s voices, too jovial for such an hour. Crowley groaned. What time was it even? He groped under his pillow for his phone.

“Sh-shush! My roommate is sleeping still. Gentlemen. Oof! A bit tight. Yes. Very good to see you as well, Private. Now, please. Inside.” Aziraphale dropped his tone even quieter. “He volunteers nights. I’d hate for him to wake because of me.”

Crowley smiled and shut his eyes.

A series of apologies later, two younger men had shuffled their way into the dark hotel room, clinking and clanking.

_The steampunks. So it begins._

Muted voices moved to the window. One of them drew back the curtain, allowing a sliver of morning light to fall across the bed, silhouetting the two young men as they peered out at Ellis Street below. Wouldn’t be much activity on that road to gawk at, even if they weren’t eleven storeys up.

Crowley had nearly fallen asleep again when Aziraphale bustled into the main room. “Lance Corporal? Private? Shall we?”

One whistled and the younger voice said, “Very nice, Professor!”

Crowley stirred, curious to catch a glimpse of whatever outfit Aziraphale had donned but without alerting anyone he could hear them.

“We have a hike ahead of us, gents,” said his roommate. “Let’s get a wiggle on, shall we?”

Another cacophony later, the door clicked shut and Crowley laid in bed alone. The smallest ray of light still crept across the floor, reaching for the bed. He checked his phone again. Alarm wouldn’t be going off for another hour.

Crowley took a slow breath and rolled away from the window and the sunlight and the promise of the day. He could still get back to sleep.

Yes. Sleep. If his brain would stop running through everything he had to do after. He would need to shower. No pressure for his afternoon shift what with the switch to evening. He’d lounge about the room for a bit, air dry. Eat an apple with peanut butter, brew up the first tea of the day. Decide on cosplay that he could put on without--

_Without Luc._

Crowley tossed aside the blankets and sat up, groaning. He hadn’t thought about his boyfriend since returning to the room the night before.

He opened his messages. Nothing new. “Hey, L,” he wrote, “when you see this, let me know you didn’t do anything too reckless last night. Miss you.”

His finger hovered over the send button.

If his boyfriend saw this message, he’d take it as an opportunity to start trying to convince Crowley to cause trouble for Fran.

Plus, it felt like a lie. Missing Luc. He didn’t miss Luc. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since they last saw each other and a lot of bullshit went down between. Crowley actually maybe possibly looked forward to the time apart.

_No. I definitely do._

He didn’t miss Luc. He regretted Luc’s absence. For so long, Crowley had relied on that extra set of eyes to check that his clothes fell nicely and de-emphasized his limited curves, that his masc make-up was subtle but flawless.

Crowley sucked in a tight breath.

It was a convention, he reasoned. He could be _potentially_ flawed for a few days if it meant avoiding the hurricanes Goddard. Didn’t scores of attendees crossplay and genderbend with a far less practiced hand? Crowley knew what his face should look like. He had to trust that instinct.

A deleted text, his morning meds, and a shower later, Crowley emerged feeling far better. It was the first day of DivCon. He’d been waiting for it since his visit last year.

Inside his closet, Crowley did his best to avoid looking at the right side where Aziraphale’s costume hung neatly. His eye caught on the blues, creams, and beiges, the slight shimmer of buttons, a feathery top hat on the shelf above.

He tossed his towel to the bed and crossed the room to throw wide the curtains. Only the glinting sunlight on the eleventh floor window kept away any prying eyes and Crowley basked naked in the early warmth. Only knowing that the Georgia heat outside would be unbearable later kept him from turning off the aircon and laying cat-like in the sun. Well, that and not knowing when Aziraphale might return with or without his steampunk mates in tow. He’d already had enough embarrassment to last the weekend, thanks.

On the bedside table, Aziraphale had left out his con book. Crowley flopped onto the half-made bed--marvelling momentarily that the angel of a man had actually gone to the effort of tucking in his side’s sheets and everything. But when he opened the booklet to look for the schedule, several pieces of paper fell onto Crowley’s naked chest.

“What… Oh, there’s a note.”

Crowley inspected the scrap of hotel stationery wrapped neatly around two twenty dollar bills and the sharp penmanship thereon.

 _You’ve given enough,_ read the note. _Buy something nice instead! A.Z.F._

Crowley chuckled and folded away the bills--his own from trying to pay for Aviva’s the night before--into the con booklet. That’s when he noticed the schedule for the day, and the stars drawn discreetly next to several events.

One starred event, _You Got Your Occult Literature in My Steampunk: From Shelley to Lovecraft and Beyond_ , began at nine o’clock in the Westin hotel up the hill. Flipping to the description, its listed panelists included members of something called The Witchfinder Army and one Professor A.Z. Fell.

He checked the time.

Half an hour.

Crowley launched himself from the bed, becoming a flurry of activity as he made up his mind to at least attend part of Aziraphale’s first ever DivCon panel. No cosplay then, couldn’t afford stopping for pics. He slipped into one of his shorter binders and a small packer because all of his trousers ran on the tight end of the spectrum. He picked out the lightweight sleeveless black turtleneck he’d planned to wear on Monday when everything went casual. He liked the faint paisley print and how the top showed off the freckles on his shoulders and arms. He pulled on slacks and his Chelsea boots with their hidden lifts, also black. In fact, everything Crowley brought for the weekend that wasn’t a piece of a costume was black. Most of his clothes at home, too. Hard to fuck up coordinating with a monochrome wardrobe.

In record time, he’d popped in golden cat-eye effects contacts and put on his face. Phone, room key, wallet, and badge lanyard all in place; sunglasses firmly in theirs. He headed out to wait for the lifts.

Luc’s voice corrected, _Elevators._

Crowley glared at nothing. He thought he’d sorted that one.

In the lobby of the Sheraton, a wall of sound punctuated the opening of the doors. There just so many people. Crowley almost didn’t manage to exit before new people started pouring in. He made halfhearted apologies to the two dads with their tykes in tow and hurried out into the maelstrom.

When Crowley had visited the year before, the noise and press of the crowd had skimmed his skin like a metal-wire brush run the wrong way. He’d picked up the anxiety medication on his daily routine for just that sort of issue. A year later, the morning crowd of Day One still gave a shock but he wasn’t scurrying back to the room, was he? Progress.

Crowley smiled to himself and straightened to his full height. He strolled through the lobby like he owned the place and everyone was simply an old friend waiting to be met.

* * *

Driven entirely by his ever-crystalizing crush on the guy he’d invited to bunk with him for four nights, Crowley had forgotten both to make tea or to eat anything. This information hit hard as he arrived outside. The morning was not yet unbearable but the crowd around his hotel already swelled with eager attendees. He ducked around the pre-reg lines and reigned in his irritation at needing to feign politeness on an uncaffeinated tongue. Lord, he was hangry.

Luckily, the Marriott had a Starbucks.

The walk down the road wasn’t bad. Faster than if he’d grabbed a yellow cab. He’d take a hotel shuttle van to the Westin to make up some time. So long as the lines at the cafe cooperated in any sense of the word, he could still catch the last half of _Transylvania Steampunks_ or whatever it was called.

Wandering in a little late to Aziraphale’s panel would be forgiven if he brought pastries, wouldn’t it? And he certainly needed coffee, lest he make an utter fool of himself and say things he definitely meant but didn’t want getting out. Things like _I think I pet your arm last night, sorry if I woke you up_. And _I would have surely spent the morning jerking off thinking about your nicely manicured fingers if I hadn’t decided to stalk you at this event instead_.

The Starbucks line moved steadily, everyone ready with their orders and eager to start the first day of con. The smooth coffee scent and whirring sound of foaming milk took Crowley back to his university days.

As he skimmed the con booklet, searching for cosplay construction panels and if his top shows and animes had anything happening this weekend, he heard a familiar little voice beside him say hopefully, “Nanny?”

Crowley lifted the booklet out of his vision with a snap of the paper. Instantly, he lit up with an uncharacteristically wide grin, the type reserved only for his most beloved of people. “Warlock?”

“Nanny!”

The boy--young man really, if Crowley was being honest, which he definitely didn’t want to be at that exact moment, as he already felt old enough--launched himself at Crowley’s waist and clung tight.

“Warlock! Christ, kid, your father put a chip in me or some such? Fifty thousand people and you find me first thing?”

Another familiar voice said, “Tad saves the chips for the president, I think. Hi, Anthony. How are you?”

Still hugging Warlock around his shoulder, Crowley extended a hand to Harriet Dowling then changed course when he saw that her arms were full with drinks and white paper bags of delicious salty smelling breakfast. Instead, he leaned across for a kiss on her cheek.

Beyond occasional photos and one particularly disastrous attempt at FaceTiming, he hadn’t seen Warlock and his mum in years. Though Crowley always made certain to Skype around important days, birthdays and holidays and the occasional absolutely random Checking On How School’s Going that had nothing to do with texts from Harriet. For the first five years of little Warlock Dowling’s life, Crowley had been like a second mother to the boy as his live-in nanny. When Crowley decided to stop living with the American Ambassador’s family, it had been to pursue a life less constrained by being perceived as female. When the boy turned ten, Crowley cut his hair short and came out to the mother. Harriet understood--she’d confided that she had a cousin back in the States who was also trans--but they both decided that Mr. Dowling might not be ready for a man as his son’s nanny. That whole idea would take too much getting used to for a person who excitedly described his first and only child at birth as a “regular Y-chromosomed son.” So, as much as he loved Warlock and Harriet and even in his own way Tad, Crowley had accepted a severance package and moved out of London.

He didn’t miss pretending to blend in with the ladies of the house, but he would never deny how much he regularly wondered about curious lonely little Warlock.

“You had a birthday,” Crowley said as he patted Warlock’s head, his shoulder-length black hair shining in the electric lights. They all stepped forward with the line.

“Yesterday,” Warlock said, beaming. The old childhood lisp shone through ever so slightly.

“Thirteen,” Crowley said and put a spooky wobble on the number.

“Mum took me to the puppetry museum. Have you been?”

“Thought you didn’t like puppets…”

Warlock ignored the question or didn’t hear, both of which were frequently the case when he got particularly invested in storytelling. “And then we went to the aquarium and I got to watch the dolphins learning! And we went to a hibachi for dinner and got ice cream after.”

“Thirteen's treating you well!”

Just like old times, as though he weren’t a teenager at all, Warlock grabbed Crowley’s hand and stood at his side, completely unashamed and utterly pleased. He took his drink--hot chocolate with two extra pumps of chocolate and one pump peppermint if memory served--while his mother spoke with Crowley.

“Warlock’s been excited for this trip for months,” she said. “All I hear about. It’s driving the tutors a little batty.”

Crowley chuckled. “First time at the big con, huh?”

Warlock exclaimed, “And meeting Gabriel Grey!”

“Ohh,” Crowley said, finally taking in the outfit his old ward sported. He flipped up the oversized hood of Warlock’s fitted silvery jacket with its extraneous zippers and fabric strips down the back approximating purple-heather wings. An amateurly hand-painted amulet hung from a braided-and-knotted cord around Warlock’s neck. He flipped the hood back down. “So that’s who you are. The Messenger himself!”

Harriet rolled her rich brown eyes but her smile shone warmly. “Is there anyone else? Thank you again for making sure we got those tickets.”

“Of course.”

“Seriously, they sold out so fast. I didn’t think voice actors were all that popular?”

They were when they were the leading man of a best selling action-adventure video game series and the eldest son of one of the convention heads.

Gabriel Grey had been a mainstay at Divine Con since he first broke into the voice acting field in the mid-two thousands, moving to Houston to dub anime with Funimation. He’d quickly landed the _Trumpet’s Herald_ gig-- _He delivers a message… of DEATH_ \--beating out Armie Hammer for the role. Gabriel had helmed the open world stealth-mission series as the dark magic-using Messenger ever since, with the fourth installment arriving that summer on XBOX 360 and PS4.

Luc didn’t have the best dynamic with his siblings but relations were a lot more cordial with the oldest brother. So in late June, Crowley joined his boyfriend at the annual family get-together at Fran and Aggie’s out in the suburbs in Decatur. When Crowley mentioned he knew a twelve-year-old who was flying in for con from London who _happened_ to be Gabriel’s biggest fan, the lantern-jawed bloke had strutted about like a proud mother hen all afternoon. No one in his family ever knew people who played his games or watched his shows. He’d practically offered to pay the Dowlings’ way to the event if the kid wanted to meet his favourite death-delivering warlock. Asking for coveted meet-and-greet tickets had been child’s play after that.

“Really, Mrs. Dowling,” Crowley said, “anything for my darling boy.”

“Oh!” Harriet glanced at Warlock who didn’t look phased, instead swinging his hand with Crowley’s and admiring all the cosplayers in line. She leaned close to Crowley and whispered, “We’re trying out neutral pronouns. Just when Tad’s not around. Mr. Harrison and Mr. Cortese said they’ve seen a big improvement during the summer courses on attentiveness. When they aren’t gushing about you and Divine Con and _Trumpet’s Herald_.”

Crowley arched his eyebrows and glanced down at Warlock. Something in his heart went all soft and wobbly. He couldn’t help wondering how much of Warlock’s gender exploration he’d played a part in, if he’d helped make a safe enough environment for the young child, far apart from his--their!--father’s very binary understanding of masculinity and all the chest thumping oo-rahing thereof.

“Warlock, sweetie,” Harriet said, leaning down though not as far as she used to need to do, “was there something you wanted to ask Anthony?”

“Uhhh…”

She looked pointed up and down Warlock’s outfit. “About tomorrow?”

“Oh yeah!” Warlock broke off from holding Crowley’s hand, nearly jumping with delight. “Will you come with us, Nanny? To meet Gabriel Grey?”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. Gabriel wasn’t the worst, no matter what Luc felt. More the type to want everyone to get along. He was a--oh what was the word… A himbo? Yes, that sounded right. Throw him enough effusive praise and point him toward talking about his latest projects, down a few drinks to drown him out, and he was like a wind-up toy: harmless, repetitive, easily stuck in a corner and forgotten about.

“You know, sure,” Crowley said. “What time?”

Naturally Warlock knew the time without needing to look it up, spouting off the location without further prompting as well.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Crowley said, grateful at last for a silver lining to his shift moving from afternoon to evening. They’d be hard-pressed to find more time together during the weekend, if experience were anything to go by.

His not-so-little buddy clamped another bear hug around Crowley’s midsection, a series of thank yous spilling from their lips.

A barista called, “I can help you down here, sir!”

“We should let Anthony get his coffee, sweetie,” Harriet said, settling a gentle hand on the teen’s back. “You remember what a _dragon_ he could be when the gardener cut in line at the kitchen.”

Warlock winced dramatically and practically leapt away. “Spare me, Nanny!”

Crowley tried hard not to crack a smile as he walked up to the register. “I’ll catch you two tomorrow. Have fun today!”

The barista wore a DivCon shirt and their Starbucks name tag. “What can I get you?”

“Uhhhh, yeah. Gonna need a venti, hot, extra shot. Coconut milk caramel macchiato. No whipped cream, no drizzle. Name’s Anthony. And…”

He should definitely eat. Crowley leaned over to the cold case, a moment of guilt flashing heat across his skin. He could have been figuring all that out before arriving at the front of the line, but seeing Warlock and Harriet? That hadn’t been part of the plan, and he hadn’t been about to turn down the chance to say hello.

The pastries in the case looked especially tantalizing, even if he wouldn’t feel actively hungry until after the caffeine kicked in. Flaky croissants and sugar-topped muffins. Cookies with big fat chocolate chunks and slices of red velvet cake slathered with cream cheese frosting. Had Aziraphale eaten anything? He’d seemed in a hurry when his steampunk friends showed up to collect him. Crowley sighed, imagining Aziraphale’s pleased face if he arrived with a whole cake. That or he’d teeter on confusion or suspicion. No, best to take it easy, slow.

Aziraphale had ordered dessert the night before, the pistachio baklava. Signs pointed to pastries: yes.

He pointed two bony fingers to the case, careful to avoid touching and smudging the glass. “Let’s have a chocolate croissant.”

As the barista grabbed a white paper bag and a sheet so they didn’t touch the food, Crowley’s heart stammered. Did Aziraphale like chocolate? Maybe something more savory.

“What about a cheese danish?”

“Those are great,” the barista said, ducking to the case. “Still want the chocolate croissant?”

“Yeah, yeah. Oh!” Crowley slid in one wide step to the far end of the case. He lifted his glasses and peered closer. “You already have pumpkin scones? Shit.”

“Want one of those, too?” The barista sounded amused, probably thought Crowley had hit some green before breakfast.

A pumpkin scone. _That_ would be special. Crowley forced his lips to stay neutral. What if Aziraphale never tried them before?

_Naw, that’s absurd. They have pumpkins back home._

Still…

“Throw two of them in!” Might not have had one this season _yet_ , Crowley reasoned. He’d eat the other. Or both, if it came to it and Aziraphale had something against pumpkin. More for him.

He grabbed a red apple as a further last minute impulse, even though he had plenty of them in the room. There was no apple in his hand, that was the key. He paid and waited, humming pleasantly.

While he waited, he people watched and munched on his apple. Already, attendees lined up for the bigger events in the main hall rooms across the foyer, where the more famous guests would talk about their latest and up-coming projects. Whole panels dedicated to casts and directors of _Star Treks_ and _The Lord of the Rings_ , with one or two of the big names and then whoever else the con could afford after that. Crowley hoped he could catch a glimpse of Sir Patrick if he was lucky. He didn’t need to speak to him or get a picture. Just knowing they’d been in the same space would be enough. He’d brag about it to Luc.

A twinge of sorrow flickered inside him as he thought about Luc so casually. It was good he wasn’t there. Crowley was tired of being the one calming Luc during his rages. He wanted to help, but more he wanted to be part of… life again. Even though his weekend plans had already gone pear-shaped, he felt ready to dive all in on conventions again. Older, wiser, less likely to fall in with the wrong crowd and make a right arsehole of himself.

He hoped.

He knew there were people who believed in him, mostly because they hadn’t met the younger reckless version of himself. And one of them stepped into line like the magic she was. Aggie came dressed in an olive ensemble of bodice, blouse, and skirts that morning. She turned to talk to someone at her side.

Crowley cringed when he saw a tightly coiled bouffant of chestnut hair.

Behind him, he heard a different employee than the first call out, “Anne-tony?”

“Here!” He whirled back to the counter, grateful to escape facing one of the few people he’d hoped not to run into that weekend: Luc and Gabriel’s middle sibling, Michael.

Crowley and Michael had done a bang-up job at that classic old trope of not sharing more than a dozen words between them. But Crowley knew from the start that he wasn’t liked. Which was a shame, in his opinion, but nothing said they had to be automatic besties just because neither of them were cis.

He figured the hate which wafted his way came as an extension of Michael’s particular distaste for the baby of the Goddard-Grey family. Where Gabriel at least ran indifferent if a little more of an insufferable kiss-ass to mum--trying to keep everyone calm and smoothed over without a father long-gone by pointing out the rules of engagement and his own belief that, if everyone followed them, it could all be okay again--Michael’s politicking cut far more directly. A middle child, Michael had no time for his older brother’s attempts at soothing and placating. No, he went after Luc’s every life choice as though his younger brother were the root of all evil ever inflicted on humanity.

Which probably made Crowley the devil’s bridegroom, in Michael’s estimation.

His acerbic judgments didn’t extend to his step-mother though. Clearly. And if Crowley wanted to say hello to Aggie, he’d need to suffer Michael’s slings and arrows.

_No, thanks._

It was a funny thing, wasn’t it? Without Luc around, eager to challenge Michael head-to-head at every chance, Crowley could decide to just… not engage. He weaved around the line the long way, one hand holding fast to his hot drink and the other to the bag of goodies, and decided it might actually be faster at that point to walk rather than attempt to catch a shuttle.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered--which were in fact merely crowded escalators and sky bridges, the tantalizing savory breakfast scents of The Hub food court, and a final hike up the knee-loathing hill’s footpath--Crowley fought his way to the hotel beyond the Hard Rock Cafe. A flash of his badge at the entrance and he was in. Another moment at the map and onward to the larger of the panel rooms on the main floor.

The volunteer at the door didn’t make a fuss as they opened the door for Crowley, who nodded in thanks with their hands full.

The room wasn’t full but for one of the first events of con it impressed Crowley to enter a sea of muted browns, greens, and golds--the occasional neon pop and other brighter colours shone like gems in the sand. Everyone faced forward, most of their begoggled top hats and pith helmets politely set on their laps for the viewing ease of those in the cheap seats. A mechanical set of wings leaned against the wall with parasols and con bags.

Up front, a set of white-skirted tables stood proudly on a short raised dais, ready to host the next four days of panels. The panelists sitting behind the table at present were the strangest take on Goldilocks and the three bears that Crowley had ever seen: a trio of vaguely militarily dressed steampunks who were definitely a nervous teenager, an enthusiastic college kid, and their boisterous grandpa alongside... brilliantly blond Aziraphale. Dressed in creams and pale pinks in his take on French aristocracy twice-run through a sparkling filter, he damn near glowed compared to the beaten leather and rusted copper of his companions.

 _He’s done something special with his hair,_ Crowley noted.

Shoulders back, he brazenly walked up the center aisle, eyes ahead as he took in the quartet, wondering if anyone else saw the fairy tale joke waiting to be made. He didn’t notice when one of the attendees on the edge of a row, a steampunk Princess Peach, stood up to answer their buzzing phone. They bumped right into each other. 

“Ow-ow-ow! Hot,” he hissed and winced as his still-mostly-full coffee sloshed in its cup and dribbled from the spout onto his fingers.

On the dais, Aziraphale’s words stalled in his mic. Crowley glanced up through his sunglasses and caught his newest favourite panelist looking right at him.

“Sorry. Ow!” Crowley blew on his fingers and made his way to an empty seat in the front row across from Aziraphale’s seat at the tables. He placed the drink at his feet and, with a grin, mimed tipping a hat to his obviously distracted roommate.

The grizzled older gent with fake medals on his jacket nudged Aziraphale in the side. That was enough to bring him roaring back to life, animatedly returning to his comments about a Gail Carriger series, his hands in constant motion.

Too smug to pay attention to the ensuing discourse, Crowley nibbled on his pumpkin scone, one leg crossed over the other and his foot jiggling to a non-existent beat in his head. He drank in every moment of the pretty man behind the table whose gaze kept flickering his way mid-sentence.

He’d flustered Aziraphale just by showing up. Oh yes, he could work with that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been forever. No guarantees on when the next installment will be along beyond "eventually". T_T I'm under a mountain of fic writing for zines that isn't letting up any time soon.
> 
> (Content Warning for this chap in the chapter end notes. Giving you the option to know or not. It is updated in the tags.)

Professor A.Z. Fell couldn’t stop looking at the red-head in the dark glasses in the front row. As he and the other panelists spoke, his expressive eyes fluttered over the crowd searching for somewhere else to perch but always he landed back on Crowley’s sharp shoulders. And Crowley _really_ liked that.

Peeking out the sides of his glasses at the audience nearby, he was notably the only person in the front row not bedeck in clanking steampunk or period-appropriate attire. That might have been why Aziraphale could single him out so easily but Crowley preened to think it was anything else. The self-satisfaction oozed down his already slippery suggestion of a spine. He took up more space than his lanky body usually asked for. With the pastry bag and coffee tucked safely below, he lounged in the stiff-backed chair and stretched one enviably long leg for his roomie to get a gander at on his next pass. It was hard to look convincingly comfortable in any pose for long and therefore exceedingly easy to look like a bit of a prat while doing so, but Crowley could thank several years as a teen catalog model for the practiced ease with which he sunk into such slinky aloofness. He kept the skill in his arsenal over the years, liked to show it off now and again.

There were more private skills he’d like to show off to Aziraphale, if given the chance.

Not that he’d been paying attention to begin with, but any pretense of following the discussion stopped once Crowley realised he was allowed to look. It was expected that he’d follow along with whomever had their turn at a mic, but if he only had eyes for one speaker who could blame him?

Much as he’d caused distraction, he was equally spellbound by Aziraphale. The neatly coiffed hair in cloudlike curls. The opalescent sheen of his jacket. What was that style? Rococo by way of _Velvet Goldmine?_ If Crowley had any small doubts about Aziraphale’s sexuality before... _Oh no, that man’s_ pure _dandy._

The speakers finished the prepared portion of their talk and took a few questions from the eager audience, devolving into tales of past convention derring-do that had their fellow retrofuturists—Crowley had learned a new word—chortling and clapping. The room monitor motioned that their time grew short; they’d need to clear the room for the next panel.

“Thank you all for joining us,” Professor Fell said, beaming and beatific as he stood.

The youngest panelist leaned to the mic. “We’re going to be–”

The mic whined and cut out, startling the boy. As his friends laughed and shook his shoulders, he projected over the crowd about a scheduled prop-making panel The Witchfinder Army had later that evening. People swarmed the stage to talk.

Crowley rose with the tide of the crowd, swiping up the pastry bag as he did so, but clung by his chair. He loathed to appear too enthusiastic. He shifted from one foot to the other, checking the time. Only a couple minutes before they absolutely had to be out of the room. It would be easy for Aziraphale to get tangled in the current and he’d lose his opportunity to talk. If there was even time enough for that. What if the man had events he wanted to get to? Crowley hadn’t seen anything starred on the schedule directly after this but that didn’t mean his whole day wasn’t filled with friends and shows and discussions he wanted to attend. Crowley would just hold him up. They were… they’d only met the night before. They were only roommates. No reason for Crowley to be there that wasn’t fucking suspicious as hell; Aziraphale knew he didn’t like the steampunk stuff.

The slithering tingle up the back of Crowley’s neck flared hot as he saw Aziraphale wriggling through the crowd toward him. “Crowley! What are you doing here?” But he seemed pleased.

He tried on a smirk to chase away his racing thoughts and breathed deeply, like he was supposed to. As he remoored his confidence, Crowley took in Aziraphale’s outfit. Up close, it became obvious that the Professor also wore make-up, highlighting his rosy cheeks and that giving smile. Broad strokes of blue atop his eyelids lent his gaze a smoky dark mystery. His eyes twinkled even in that artificial light.

Wasn’t fair.

Weak-kneed, Crowley wondered how he’d ended up with this absolute cherub in his weekend. Did he do something right for a change? Or very, very wrong? If he kept oogling the man— _admiring, I am bloody fucking admiring him_ —then he’d miss out on seeming laid-back and cool.

_Stop smizing and recover. Quick! Before he gets swept away!_

So Crowley stepped in close under the guise of escaping the foot traffic around them. He gave a little tug on the brocade lapels. “Mm. I caught word you were all dolled up,” he drawled, “so where else would I be? This is cute.”

Aziraphale held in a smile, a bit of a wiggle escaping. “You hate it. Why are you here really?”

“We never exchanged numbers and you rushed out before I was up.”

“I see.”

“It’s that, if you lose your room card, your name isn’t on the guest list.”

“Ah! Clever. Here, what’s your number? I’ll message you.”

Crowley gave his number and a moment later, a text came through: _It’s me! Aziraphale._ He chuckled as he saved the new contact. “And really, I mean it. You look nice.”

Aziraphale might have started to reject the praise but his refutation quickly slid into a shy laugh. He dipped his head and fluttered his lashes. Touched his hair and looked away. When he scanned the room with intent, Crowley followed his gaze to where the other panelists were still chatting by an empty stretch of wall, taking pictures with a dozen attendees. It was a miracle no one lingered nearby for the Professor’s attention.

No one other than Crowley, that was.

Maybe Aziraphale’s bashful response to a morsel of flirting was contagious, but he felt suddenly and acutely self-conscious. Hell below, did he know how to stand in any way that wasn’t awkward? Honestly, where did the arms go? The whole deal with limbs seemed like a scam.

Then he noticed what he carried.

“Oh!” Crowley asked, “Did you get to eat anything?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I slept in more than I wanted to. I think we’re doing lunch next? The Witchfinders and some of the other steampunk crews invited me. But Lord knows how long they’re going to chat up their fans here.”

Crowley shoved out the white paper bag, its sides stained from the buttery contents. “I got too many.” When Aziraphale blinked at him, he added, “My eyes. Bigger than my stomach. So. Take your pick?”

“You’re a savior.”

Crowley sipped at the dregs of his lukewarm drink while a visibly-relieved Aziraphale inspected the pastries. Bent to look in the bag as he was, Crowley could see faint traces of color in the man’s white-blond hair. Pale pink and baby blue, soft violet and creamy lime. Some kind of chalk? He’d have to ask.

“Ooo!” Aziraphale chose the chocolate croissant, proudly revealing it like a guessed card in a magic trick.

 _Right on_ my _first guess,_ Crowley delighted. “You can take another if you like.”

“Oh no, this is plenty. Thank you.”

“You sure?” Crowley left off the part where he’d already pushed his stomach with the butter in one pumpkin scone. If this man were particularly perceptive, he would figure out the cheese danish was absolutely and only for him.

“The boys won’t be long.” Aziraphale bit into the croissant, careful not to mess up the copper-dusted color of bittersweet berries painted on his lips. Though merely a chain store baked good, the way his eyes fluttered closed spoke volumes to his hunger.

Crowley twitched with nerves, ravenous himself. “All right, because, you know… I mean– I could show you around. It’s your first time here.”

“You think so?” Aziraphale challenged.

Crowley snickered but his words were mild. “You didn’t know Aviva’s doesn’t deliver. Rookie mistake in Atlanta.” He moved in closer, risking it to raise his thumb to Aziraphale’s cheek. Delicately, he brushed a flake of croissant from the corner of those parted lips. He didn’t linger, didn’t dare.

A soft breath escaped. “I…”

Maybe he’d been about to take Crowley’s offer or maybe he’d been ready to tell him off for being far too forward. They’d never know.

A scrawny bespeckled bundle of energy bounded over to Aziraphale, nearly crashing into him. Over his shoulder, he carried a prop blunderbuss of wood and whirligigs, and part of a trumpet too. The dark-haired boy from The Witchfinder crew. Private Pulsifer. In Crowley’s estimate he was maybe fifteen or sixteen, close to Ana’s age. He had a look that certain puppies got right before they were dogs, the stage where breeders started praying they’d grow into their huge feet and ears.

“Professor!” The boy said, “The crews are headed to a photo meet at Hardy Ivy Park before lunch. Are you joining?”

Aziraphale scanned Crowley’s face for… some answer. “Before? Uh. Yes.” He turned then to the boy dressed in an unseasonable wax cotton coat. He threw a layer of lightness over his words, though not exactly the cheeky cheer he’d displayed earlier. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there.”

The boy turned to Crowley. “Oh hello. Are you an American friend of the Professor’s?”

An unintelligible series of syllables fell from Crowley’s throat. He had no idea how to answer that utterly innocent inquiry on about three different levels.

When another man from the panel approached, hailing Private Pulsifer, Crowley knew all control of the nice moment he’d been trying to have was lost. It had to happen at some point, their time in the panel room alone finite, but he still lamented the seconds he’d wasted. His hesitation. That he hadn’t palmed Aziraphale’s cheek in full to feel the soft powdered coolness of his skin.

The newest interrupter slung an arm over the boy’s shoulders. Several more costume jewelry bits of fake medals and honor adorned his short coat than on young Pulsifer’s. Not too old, not too young. The middle Witchfinder then, the so-called Lance Corporal Shadwell.

The young man plucked the prop weapon away despite a noise of protest. “Uncle Dougie thought someone nabbed this.”

“Yes, _me_ ,” the boy said, clearly disappointed he wasn’t trusted to wield the impressive piece.

“Come on! Let’s skedaddle afore the crowds get rough.”

“ _Fine._ We’ll see you at the park, Professor.” Private Pulsifer gave a nervous wave to Crowley. “Nice meeting you.”

“Aye, nice tae-” The young man cut off mid-sentence, finally noticing how Aziraphale had been otherwise engaged before all the intrusions. Crowley burned under a very openly telegraphed once and then twice over. To Aziraphale, the Witchfinder gave a lopsided grin. “This yer dark knight, is he?”

Crowley gawped at his roommate, thick eyebrows lifted.

“I-uh—” He nervously touched the curls at the nape of his neck. “—may have explained how I ended up in the Sheraton.”

The teen began to physically drag away the young man with his too-approving grin. “Now _you’re_ the one holding us up.”

“Professor,” the twenty-something called as the pair disappeared into the thinning crowd, “I’ll save you a spot!”

“Thank you, Lance Corporal!” Aziraphale returned his attention to Crowley.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “God, you really do call each other by those silly names.”

“They’re not silly. They’re fun.”

“They’re embarrassing.”

“For you, clearly,” Aziraphale teased.

The room monitors called for the space to clear, so they moved with the last of the panel attendees. An older couple called their thanks to Aziraphale for his discussion. He drank in the praise.

“You’re friends with those Witchfinders, eh? Were they the ones knocking down our door this morning?”

“We’ve been friends online for years. Tom—the older one there—he came to Steampunk London last autumn. That’s how I got in here, actually. Put in a good word with the track liaison and it turned out the lady had heard of my work. Big fan of the blog!”

“I see.” He didn’t.

Outside the room, they stepped away from the foot traffic toward a clear patch of space by a railing.

Aziraphale hummed happily. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I’ve never been to such a large event. And this isn’t even the main hotel?”

Even before noon on Friday as it was, the Westin lobby below buzzed with excitement. The smooth music of thousands of voices made one washed over them.

“Yeah, it’s nice. Can blend in easily. Well, I can. Probably not you,” he said, gesturing to the fancy outfit.

“Is that why you’re all in black then?”

“Yep. You caught me. You caught the Tater. Oh, hey. Here,” Crowley said as he handed over the white paper bag from the Starbucks. “It’ll be lunchtime at this rate before you _actually get_ to lunch.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in exaggerated exasperation. “I think I’ll take you up on that. Where are you off to now?”

“Not sure. Shift doesn’t start till eight. I’ve got… Ugh, ten hours. I should catch a nap in there if I’m to stay up all night. I can eat leftovers before that. Hmm. Maybe I’ll wander the Walk of Fame. Watch one of the lobby parties. Not sure. Plenty of time.”

“Will you be cosplaying?”

“At some point, yeah.”

“Let me know if you need any help with those… contraptions. In the closet.”

Crowley groaned. Hadn’t thought about that part yet. Luc usually helped him. Maybe he could beg Beez. Or bribe Ana if he ran into them.

“Those are a Saturday costume,” he answered, “but yeah, gonna need a hand. Should we part ways here? Don’t want to keep you from your photographs.”

There was a moment too long between them. A hesitation hung in the air. A look behind Aziraphale’s hazel eyes that said, if Crowley asked, he might ditch his friends and join him for that tour.

 _But you’re not mine to keep this weekend,_ he thought. _I want you to have the_ best _time._

As if on cue, he spotted another of Aziraphale’s steampunk friends notice them and rise from a seat he’d been resting in. He gestured, drawing his roommate’s attention toward the gent. “Another challenger approaches.”

“Professor Fell!”

“Sergeant Shadwell.” Aziraphale didn’t sound nearly so enthused.

“The boys ran ahead. Took the Thundergun for me, too, good lads. Ah figgered yoo’d need an escort tae the park.” The Papa Bear of the trio, the man was significantly older than the other two, his accent thicker than the Lance Corporal’s. On the front flaps and sleeves of his long duster, he’d affixed so many medals and pins and patches it seemed more prop than costume itself.

“Ah, jolly good, Sergeant. Yes, thank you. I... didn’t think about that part.” He cast a sideways glance at Crowley.

“An’ yer friend?” The elderly man scowled, a very different reception from the younger Shadwell. “Dun look like he belongs with us.”

“Oh no. Uh, Mr. Crowley is not a time-traveller.”

“Nae, ah can see that.” He crowded into Crowley’s space then. With a completely straight face, the older cosplayer glared up and asked, “How nipples hae ye got, laddie?”

Crowley went wide-eyed behind his glasses. “Er…”

“Sergeant, honestly.”

The old man backed off, grumbling and unimpressed. “Cannae hae our Professor falling under the sway of the forces of darkness!”

Aziraphale softened. “I would never entertain such wickedness, Sergeant. I assure you, before I took him up on his most generous offer to _provide me with lodgings_ this weekend,” Aziraphale said, and recognition bloomed on the older gent’s face, “I ascertained that Mr. Crowley has only the _appropriate_ number of nipples.”

Crowley felt himself getting red. Aziraphale absolutely did not under any circumstances know that information.

“Well,” the sergeant seemed exceedingly pleased, whether by the bit of role-play or the presumed information gathering. “That’s aces.”

As Aziraphale leaned close to Crowley, he could smell the hotel soap and some vanilla product. Aftershave or perfume? His roommate whispered, “Ever so sorry about him.”

Crowley breathed out a confused laugh. “Go have fun with your friends. You’ve my number if you need anything. And I’ll be up all night if you’re bored.”

“Enjoy your convention, my dear.” Then Aziraphale stood tall, shaking on the character he’d so easily inhabited in his more playful moments sitting on the panel. He grabbed Crowley’s hand and bowed, kissing the back. “If I don’t see you around, a little something to remember me by.”

He actually managed to wink, too, the dramatic arsehole.

“Lead the way, Sergeant,” Professor Fell called as he twirled away, leaving Crowley frozen and speechless. “I dare say we are risking unfashionable lateness.”

Long after the foppish professor and his grumpy sidekick disappeared from sight, Crowley stared after him, marveling. _He’s a lot bolder in character than I expected._

Shit, he’d gone into the conversation hoping to leave Aziraphale a little flustered and wound up caught instead.

Crowley sighed at himself. Ridiculous. He finished the last mouthfuls of his macchiato gone cold and dumped the cup in the nearest bin. He’d have to decide what to do about the flirting. Test the waters on how _Professor Fell_ felt about trans guys. Clearly he had no problem with the forces of darkness possibly offering him lodgings, as he had not asked anything about nipples. Crowley had been in such a state of adoration when they met, he probably would have offered to let Aziraphale check for himself. That could’ve gone any number of ways.

As he headed to the Westin elevators, he contemplated checking out the gaming floors above before wandering down the hill to the Sheraton. Plenty of time to kill.

He tapped his foot, counting through the hours.

_Should be ready by seven so I can check in at the Marriott on time to make my shift up here. Need at least three hours of sleep. Up by six? So, in the room by two…_

Which didn’t give much time if he wanted to cosplay while he could, with or without a helper. Something chill. He’d already seen a few other Starlords with their vintage walkmen. That could be fun, get a spot of attention to keep up his mood.

He thanked past-Crowley for barreling ahead and throwing that one together in a month. He was busy feeling grateful that he could choose to mask up or not depending on how anxious he felt, when there came a chilling voice over his head.

“Hello, Crawley.”

Crowley’s mind blanked. Someone had found him.

Someone from his past in the UK.

His ears started to ring, high and crackling.

Despite the change in his look and a few thousand miles. Despite that he could be any one of hundreds of wankers dressed all in black in the August heat.

The edges of his sight turned grey. He’d been having too nice of a day. This was his punishment.

Despite that he was one useless face in a sea of tens of thousands, someone-

_No one back home calls you that._

He sucked in a breath.

_You know this voice. Come on. Back in your body, mate._

Crowley steadied his nerves, pulled on an obviously fake smile, and turned. Two of Luc’s hangers-on stood before him, dressed in kigurumis that belied their true nature. No one who saw the shorter handsome one in his bright yellow and orange chameleon onesie would guess him as slippery as an eel, nor that the taller man in the ill-fitting lime green froggie get-up only looked like he’d be fun at parties.

“Hastur! Ligur! They let you out of the swamp for the weekend. How nice.”

Hastur loomed, his eyes dead with fatigue. “Where’s Luc?”

No pleasantries then. “W-why would I know?”

“Because you’re his little dog,” Ligur said with a snicker.

“Never far behind him, are you... Crawley?”

Crowley thinned his lips. He did not like the nickname, never had. “Luc’s still home.”

“Bullshit.”

Hastur leered. “He left us in the lurch last night. Beez said so.”

“Beez also said he’d be in today.” Ligur backed Crowley toward the walkway railing. “So where is he?”

“Guys. I swear to you. He’s home. Fran and him had a big to do. We’re all fucked on this one. Call him. Or go there! You’ll see.”

“We did,” said Hastur.

“If he’s there,” Ligur added, “he ain’t answering.”

A knot of dread tucked into Crowley’s stomach. “H-h-he’s not home?”

What if Luc was at the convention? He cast about, scanning the crowd, even though it made no sense. What if Luc had apologized to his mum, begged forgiveness, and everything was back on? That would be… good. Right? That’s what Crowley wanted, wasn’t it? For his boyfriend to be there all weekend with him. Enjoying time away from their place, fucking on some other bed, in some other shower, on some other floor. Making memories that _didn’t_ involve fucking, hopefully too. And maybe not fighting about it.

Crowley paled.

If Luc was at the con, he’d expect to stay in Crowley’s room. Their room. No, the room Luc earned, not Crowley. It was Luc’s room. And he hadn’t messaged about his guest.

He wouldn’t tell Aziraphale to leave. He flat out refused the very idea.

But if his boyfriend was on site, what choice did he have? _There but by the grace of Luc go I._

Crowley dropped into a crouch against the low wall of the walkway, ignoring Luc’s friends’ questions about what he was doing, trading away his answer for the horror in his heart. He fumbled for his phone and tucked his head low to his knees, trying and failing to get out a message.

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for this chapter: Includes moments of dissociation, panic/panic attack, misnaming (but not deadnaming).
> 
> If I have missed any CWs or tags, I apologize! Please, feel free to leave a comment and I'll get that listed.


End file.
